


The Peculiarities of Russian Fishing

by glitterpile



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fishing, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mild Smut, Minor Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky, Post-Canon, Romance, Russian Culture, Swearing, Translation, so much swearing, tone it down plisetsky pls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 14:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14854509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterpile/pseuds/glitterpile
Summary: What is the best way for real Russian men to bond? Fishing, of course! And if the group isn’t entirely male, not all Russian, and only one of them has any knowledge at all of how to fish… well, that’s even more fun! At least, that was the way Viktor saw it, Yuuri just wanted to get to know the Russian squad better, Yura and Otabek had wanted to escape from the watchful eyes of their coaches anyway, Gosha needed a distraction from his latest breakup, while Mila felt her presence was needed to keep an eye on all of the above. (P.S. No fish suffered in the making of this fic)Translated from Russian.





	The Peculiarities of Russian Fishing

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Особенности национальной рыбалки](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/387516) by Litessa. 



> Translator’s notes:
> 
> There’s a famous Russian comedy movie called Peculiarities of the National Fishing. Of course, for us it’s national, for you it’s Russian. Anyway, that’s the only reason the title doesn’t match. If you read the plot summary, you’ll get the idea - lots of drunk shenanigans, very little actual fishing.
> 
>  
> 
> There's very little smut and it's easily skippable - two paragraphs sandwiched between "Or maybe, this was simply love" and "***".

All of yesterday Viktor had been more mysterious than usual. Not on the regular level of “I have a secret - I’ll tell you for a kiss”, but rather more like “oh, the things you’ll need to do to get _this_ out of me…”

Basically, when Yuuri was woken at five in the morning, bundled into the car half-asleep and driven first to the supermarket and then beyond the edge of town, he already had some notion that the two of them would be meditating naked on some wide alpine meadow surrounded by purple Milkas - you wouldn’t expect any less from a Viktor acting this way. The only thing that didn’t make sense was why they had also picked up Yuri, even more grumpy from the early wake up call, together with a disgustingly well-rested Otabek. And then both Gosha and Mila were pulled in too (Yuuri barely had time to yank the bags of groceries onto his lap before he was crushed in the back seat). 

An hour of jolting on backwater unbeaten paths, in these regions not significantly differing from the beaten ones, five pit stops to ask someone for directions (over Viktor’s grumbling “I know which way to go perfectly well, I just wanted to show Yuuri the scenic route!”), three loops to go back due to taking wrong turns (over even more indignant grumbling “yes, that turn was also intentional!”), and they had finally arrived to their destination.

Viktor stepped out of the car (almost forgetting to put on the handbrake), stretched, took a deep breath of the cool morning air - and turned with a wide smile:

“So, shall we go fishing? This place came highly recommended, apparently the fish practically fling themselves onto your naked hook here!” 

Plisetsky gave a sceptical snort: in his opinion, the most that Viktor would be able to catch here “naked” would be some sort of wild parasite onto his naked ass. Yuuri responded with an uncertain smile: he himself hadn’t fished before, fishing was prohibited in most large bodies of water back in Japan, so he had no particular comment to make. Somehow, Yuuri suspected that it was purely due to his presence that they were all gathered here right now - he had confessed his lack of fishing experience to Viktor when they were about to watch the film “Peculiarities of Russian Fishing”. They never did end up watching the movie - but after that point Viktor’s mysterious behaviour level had increased significantly. 

Now that mysteriousness had reached a frightening peak. 

Their things were unpacked quickly: lifted out of the car and thrown onto the grass nearby; Viktor leaned into the marginally less packed back seat and emerged with fishing rods in both hands. He presented one of them to Yuuri with the kind of proud solemnity that wouldn’t be out of place at an Olympic Games medal ceremony - Yuuri had the distinct impression that at any moment the national anthem would start playing from the bushes, and photographers would spontaneously emerge from the river in scuba diving gear.

To purge those thoughts from his mind - including the anthem buzzing in ears - he had to shake his head. The motion conveniently also served to scatter the mosquitos - the bloodsuckers had already swarmed him like a pack of press vultures. 

“You’re not considered truly Russian until you experience three things,” Viktor began in a serious tone. 

“Vodka, balalaika, matryoshka?” suggested Yuuri, picking up on the implied theme. 

“Vodka, hunting and fishing,” he was corrected with a smile. 

Yuuri had almost asked in bafflement whether they had also dragged rifles with them or if they were planning to hunt bears with fishing rods alone, when he was interrupted. 

“Vik, I’m sure the piggy gets it well enough!” Yura’s voice made itself known from behind him. “He made good friends with the vodka back at the banquet, then successfully netted the golden fish - you - and did such a great job at setting out mantraps that you still haven’t escaped his clutches. So if there’s anyone here who needs to learn, it’s clearly not him!” 

“Yurochka!” Viktor gasped indignantly. 

“Vitechka!” Plisetsky mocked back. 

Then they froze, staring each other down darkly. Goshechka and Milochka, seeing this, decided to keep quiet to avoid getting drawn into the kindergarten squabble, and went to work - Gosha had already managed to pull his guitar out of its case and now, sitting to one side under a tree, began tuning it; Otabek walked around the motionless Yuri and began unpacking his things; Mila headed off along the banks to search for a decent beach to take a dip and do some sunbathing - the sun was starting to get higher in the sky, and soon it would start getting hot.

Although, based on the current atmosphere, it was already heating up regardless. 

Half an hour later Yuuri wiped tiredly at his sweaty brow. It turned out that fishing was a troublesome business and required attention to all sorts of finicky details. Here the preparations involved for casting a line were more thorough than for a quad on the rink, and the following meditation, required to not spook the fish, needed to be more intense than at any temple (Viktor informed him that the secret was to not even think at all: fish are capable of reading your mind. Plisetsky jumped in with the statement that they both should have no problems at all in that case, as that was something they excelled in). 

Essentially, in the immortal words of one Yurochka watching their unsuccessful attempts, fishing was tricky as fuck.

When Yuuri failed to cast his line into the water for the third time in a row (either the line didn’t unspool correctly, or he discovered his hook was a herbivore as it flew only in the direction of the greenery and latched onto the rushes so strongly that Viktor had to untangle it by hand), Nikiforov raised his finger to his lips in thought and then lit up with a realisation:

“We haven’t yet had a drink for luck!” 

Yuuri gave a shuddering gulp. Sure, his throat _was_ a little dry, but he somehow doubted that the Russians were suggesting to drink for the purpose of fighting thirst. Well, perhaps only the thirst for adventure.

But he couldn’t say anything against it: they wound up their rods, gathered together with the rest, had a drink for fishing luck. Then again - “to make sure”, as Viktor explained. After that it really was easier to cast in lines: now it didn’t matter which direction and how far, as long as you cast it anyway. They sat down to wait for a bite. They poured some more - “you can never have enough luck” said Viktor, and Yuuri agreed. In half an hour the fishing trip had started to remind him of the banquet. And he, swaying a little, obediently knocked back the plastic cup that Viktor brought him - after all, following all that champagne at the banquet the ‘fish’ really did get hooked well… 

Another ten or so minutes later Yura and Otabek came out from the nearby woods with some firewood. Yura sized up the number of empty bottles, gave a low whistle and with the words: “We have enough dead wood as it is, so maybe you alcoholics should give it a rest”, cut them off from the booze. 

Viktor objected, in a surprisingly sober tone, that their condition was still quite reasonable: they hadn’t yet lost sight of the river or started casting their lines into the forest. Yuuri did not match his optimistic outlook and stayed silent: he was already using his rod as either a pole or a walking stick, but certainly not for its primary purpose. His head was pleasantly dizzy, and he felt like he might want to try to catch the fish with his bare hands. 

Yuuri had already leaned over to roll up his pants in preparation for entering the water (and barely avoided tumbling in as he did), when he heard a ring. Yuuri at first thought it was inside his head - almost like an oven bell, signalling that the food is done. He himself certainly felt _done in_ at this point. But then Viktor, sprawled on a clump of half-dead grass, suddenly shot to his feet:

“Aha! Gotcha!” - with that shout he joyfully ran to his fishing rod. 

“Gods, just pick it up like a normal person! Are you going to reel in a fish or just beat it to death in the river?” Yura immediately flared up. 

“Strike it, strike!” Gosha interrupted him, energised; the shouts even made Mila look over with interest, pausing in her sunscreen application. 

Viktor did indeed strike. He struck with a huge swing - Yuuri had barely managed to jump back when something flopped wetly near his feet. Before he could focus his blurry vision towards the uncertain blob, a blonde head entered his field of view: crouching, Yura prodded the object with a stick and roared with laughter: 

“Congratulations, Your Fishing Majesty, you’ve caught a boot - it was just heading upstream to spawn! And how shall we cook it?” 

The last sentence was pronounced with such genuine interest that Yuuri believed him and began mentally preparing himself to taste true Russian cuisine. And why not? He was already acquainted with axe porridge - Viktor had read it to him at one point. But this was his first time hearing about boot soup. 

After some time, when the fog started to lift from his eyes, while his empty fish bucket continued to lack all signs of life, Yuuri began to suspect that things were not going according to plan (if there ever really was a plan - something everyone who knew Viktor was in their rights to doubt).

“Maybe we’re doing something wrong?” he gently asked. Viktor didn’t bat an eyelid, stubbornly continuing to hypnotise the motionless float with his gaze, almost as if he was having a staring contest with it. Although based on the lack of nibbles, it was more like he was playing hide-and-seek with the fish. Yuuri didn’t give up: “Maybe we can go online and…” 

“No can do!” grumbled Mila. “I already wanted to upload some new photos, but the only kind of web you can reach in this place comes from a spider’s butt.” 

“Well of course, we’re in open country!” sniffed Viktor. It seemed like he was the only one unbothered by any of this. Although, the fact that the word ‘bother’ probably didn’t even glance in the direction of his personality, Yuuri had realised back during their first meeting in the hot springs.

“The important point is that there’s no signal whatsoever - Yakov was unlikely to have a joyful reaction when he realised none of us were at home, and his phone calls would be frightening off all the fish right about now,” suddenly mumbled Yuri, skipping a flat pebble straight down the length of the river. 

“It’s _you_ that’s gonna spook off all the fish right now!” Viktor immediately reacted. 

“They’ve all been scared off long ago by your clucking and squealing about the piggy!” Yura shot back and vengefully threw another stone. 

He became bored of that activity quickly as Otabek refused to join him in a stone skipping contest; he was actually studying a map of the local area with such intense focus, that it wouldn’t be surprising if there was hidden treasure nearby and they were about to go search for it. At least, that’s what Yuuri thought; when Plisetsky sat near him and they started whispering back and forth, it only confirmed his suspicions.

Over the next hour of fishing, when nobody got in Viktor’s way any more, the fish finally started to show signs of their presence: air bubbles and rings appeared on the surface, and some splashes could be seen occasionally. That’s when Yuuri discovered many new fish names. These species weren’t native in Japan, and for some reason the store also never stocked the Bastard-fish, the Bitch-fish, or the most energetic one, insultingly bumping into the hook but never catching onto it - the Fucker-fish. And each time Viktor pulled his still-bare hook from the water, he swore that just a moment ago there had been a fish “with an eye the size of my fist” attached to it. 

Off to the side loud laughter caught their attention - there Gosha was unhooking a tiny little fish from his line and blurting justifications: 

“I can’t just kill it - it might have a family, and kids!” 

It seemed that this wasn’t the first fish that had only got a light scare instead of meeting its fate in a stew - Mila was struggling to wipe the tears from her eyes, while Yura was clutching his stomach and begging for mercy. Gosha shook his head - they just don’t understand! - and lowered his hand with the wriggling fish into the water. 

“But what if that fish had dumped its fish-boy and is now swimming to a new fish?” cheekily blurted Plisetsky, trying not to choke on his laughter. 

It was obvious that he was joking, but Gosha suddenly stiffened - and the air around him turned from kind-hearted to menacing. Yura and Mila also quieted down, watching him tensely - Popovich rushed to the river edge, snatched up his fishing rod and cast it with such a big swing that he almost hooked it onto his rinkmates behind him. 

“Then I will recatch it immediately and force it to return to its family!” he claimed in response to the pair of surprised looks he got. “Don’t worry, little fishie, I’ll stop you from making this mistake!” 

Mila leaned over to Yura and whispered in his ear: 

“If I was in the fish’s place I’d be scared.” 

“I’m getting goosebumps even in my own place,” Yura admitted and shuddered. 

Without any discussion they both backed away - which so happened to be in Viktor’s direction. He, it seems, was just waiting for an audience: he was balancing on the creaky wooden boards of the pier as he made his way right to the end, in order to try casting his line even further. Yuuri didn’t risk following him, instead he sat near the start and lazily dangled his feet into the pleasantly cool water, occasionally cheering Viktor on.

He wasn’t the only one who tried to give Viktor some support. 

“Try not to fuck it up, fisherboy!” Yura was either warning or jinxing him, holding his hands around his mouth as a megaphone to make his voice carry. “With your luck, there might even be piranhas around here!” - and quietly added, glancing at Yuuri with a smirk: “In any case, I hear that fishing always works better with live bait.” 

After that Plisetsky observed with poorly concealed glee how Yuuri rapidly pulled his wet legs up and under his body. 

The fish were also responding poorly in the middle of the river - after twenty minutes Viktor, having run back across the pier with an enviable nimbleness, jumped back onto the bank and concluded: 

“I get it now - there are no fish here!” 

As if waiting for just these words, in the middle of the river something loudly splashed, then again and again in another spot. Viktor continued to stand there with the unperturbed expression of an a-fish-theist - didn’t catch any, so they don’t exist. 

“Of course there are fish… you just have to know how to catch them!” grumbled Yura and closed his eyes, relaxing against a sun-warmed tree trunk. When the response was a suspicious silence, he quickly opened them again and asked nervously: “Why are you all staring?” 

“Do you know how?” Viktor answered his question with another question. Yura was suddenly caught in the crossfire of several pairs of intrigued, desperate eyes, and the boy realised that he had just made a huge mistake. He screwed up. 

Time to bail.

“I guess, my grandpa taught me,” he tentatively agreed, getting to his feet just in case. It was always easier for him to start running from a standing position. “We go fishing together every summer…” 

“You’ll teach us to fish!” - this somehow didn’t sound much like a request. Yura for some reason remembered that he had used the same tone when asking Viktor to give him a program - so perhaps occasionally they had more in common with each other than he was willing to admit… But this was a different situation, he’d made no promises - and definitely didn’t forget any such promise! He’s still a long way from having to worry about such senility! 

“No way,” Yura decisively shook his head. The movement made his hair tickle at his nose, making him want to sneeze. Or perhaps more accurately he wanted to sneeze at these dumbasses, first having dragged him god knows where, and now assuming that he was going to entertain them.

“Why?” Viktor persisted. Did he really not understand? 

“Cause you’re all butterfingers of the first degree, and I’m not planning to spend my only day off in the emergency ward with a hook in my ass!” exploded Plisetsky. 

“Come on, Yurochka!” Viktor pleaded, trying to twist his arm into it. Yuuri was already prepared to give him anything and everything he desired - who could refuse such a face? But Russians, it seemed, were immune to each other’s insolence. 

“Yurochka is already sixteen years old,” he snorted, seemingly the only one possessing the knowhow required to catch fish, “and I plan to live for at least that many more.” 

“At least give us some suggestions, greedyguts.” 

“Try lobbing a stick of dynamite into the river - it’ll be both effective and gorgeous as fuck,” proposed Yura completely seriously. 

Yuuri tensed up - if they had explosives in the car boot alongside the rifles, this fishing trip was about to become dangerous for more than just the fish.

Viktor paused in thought. 

That made _everyone_ tense up - even Yura, who was certain that there were no explosives in the car.

“Should we take a food break?” nervously suggested Yuuri. Not out of any particular hunger, but rather on the principle of ‘occupy the brain with eating instead of causing problems’, which at this point Viktor clearly sorely needed. 

Nikiforov blinked, returning to his light-hearted attitude; everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The firewood was already in place - while Yura was on the verge of being press-ganged into being their fishing _sensei_ , Otabek had brought more twigs and arranged them into a pyramid; the fire was successfully started from the second attempt, and the sausages cooked over the flames went down very well indeed - especially when they chased them with the remnants of the alcohol.

After the fifth toast, the sausages became sufficiently tasty even without cooking. After the eighth they finished filling up on bread and began to get thirsty for some entertainment. 

Gosha arranged himself more comfortably, strummed the strings a few times, listening carefully, and, deciding that the guitar was tuned, started playing. His voice was surprisingly melodic as he picked up the song:

_You hug the guitar with tenderness - as a dear friend you treat her  
The strings with shards of echo would higher notes play _

Yuuri actually became spellbound - he closed his eyes and leant his head on Viktor’s shoulder. It was a pretty good idea to come here - it’s so warm, with fresh air; better than in the stuffy cramped apartment…

The melody stopped so suddenly that Yuuri jumped in surprise, blinking blearily. Viktor immediately put his arms around him, soothingly stroking his exposed and already mosquito-bitten side. 

“Don’t worry, it’s just an argument about musical tastes,” he quietly murmured. 

Yura had by now managed to wrestle the guitar off Georgi, shoved it towards Otabek with a victorious smile, and said, beaming in delight: 

“Fuck ‘em up, Beka. Let’s show them some real music!” 

The other chuckled and took the guitar; fingers of the left hand pressed into position, the right hung over the strings… this melody seemed to Yuuri to be much more energetic. Especially at the chorus: 

_“How the inhuman insomnia shifts your shape in the night!”_ Yura shouted with a deliberately hoarse voice, banging his head. _“Whose prison of ideas you’re in, why do you hunt down peopleeee!”_

“Yura, stop telling horror stories at night!” Viktor interrupted him before he could start the next verse.

Then he gave Yuuri a quick kiss on the cheek, rose (Yuuri immediately started shivering) and approached Otabek. He was given the guitar without a fight, and Yuuri realised with some surprise that Viktor knew how to play it. And that he has a gorgeous voice. Kami-sama, was there anything his idol couldn’t do, so that Yuuri could stop feeling like a blasphemer next to this flawless visage? 

_“You’re mine, the best of men out there, you’re one in a million!”_ \- sang Viktor, gazing soulfully into Yuuri’s eyes, who blushed while Plisetsky demonstratively barfed in the background. 

Not literally, but he was pretty close to it when Viktor showed that he wasn’t planning to stop after a single song. 

“Beka, time to pack up the fishing rods before these unicorns start shitting rainbows everywhere,” he grumbled and, dragging him by the hand, quickly vanished into the woods. 

Maybe Viktor got bored without an audience, or perhaps he remembered that he had come here for fishing instead of karaoke, but either way he returned the guitar to Gosha and then encouraged Yuuri to follow him for the nth time to the edge of the water. They didn’t find the fishing rods under the cover of the surprisingly quickly-descended darkness - but Viktor wasn't fazed. He decided to catch the fish with his bare hands. 

Or, more likely, to stomp them with bare feet: the booze they had drunk made them feel like they were buffeted by a storm, despite the water being flat as glass, and they continuously clutched at each other with dumb laughter, almost certainly scaring away not just the fish but also all the fishermen in the area. Suddenly Viktor lunged down, sinking his arm into the water all the way to his shoulder and soaking his shirt, and when he stood back up he had a small fish wriggling in his fist. 

“Look, it's so cute!” whispered Viktor, as if he was worried he would spook it.

Yuuri leaned in readily. His first ever freshly caught Russian fish looked… like a regular fish: a slim body covered in tight silvery scales, a tail rapidly swiping back and forth and a big mouth gasping up at him. 

Yuuri felt like he understood the fish completely - when he was in Viktor’s hands for the first time, he too couldn't say a single word, struggled to breathe, and he also felt like gaping his mouth open for air was all he could do. 

“Our fish are different - we have a lot of flounders,” Yuuri whispered in wonderment. 

“This is a _lesch_ ,” Viktor replied with such pride, it was as if he'd just single-handedly discovered and named the entire species.

Yuuri rounded his mouth in surprise. He had heard of Russian “lesch” before, Yurio was constantly threatening to give him some - so he was referring to this little fish? 

“It's so flexible,” Yuuri said out loud, reaching to touch its slippery body. How was Viktor even managing to hold onto it? 

“More flexible than me?” suddenly sounded from above him. 

It was really an odd idea to compare a human with a fish - look, it could touch its own head with its tail, it's hard to be more bendy than that - so Yuuri gave an honest answer…

Yuuri only realised his mistake later. About a second later, in, fact, when Viktor dropped the fish and with the jealous outburst “What about now, Yuuri?!” pulled himself into a Biellmann. Except he had forgotten that the river bottom was slippery. And that inside him flowed rivers of alcohol with steep shores. And that, thanks to his efforts, Yuuri was equally inebriated and leaning on him to stay upright wasn’t the best idea. 

That was how, filling the air with startled yelps, they began doing some pair swimming. 

Mila pulled them out, having rushed to the noise - she was the only sober one in the entire party. As a pure blooded Russian woman, she could be relied on to stop a horse on the gallop, or enter a burning house, or in this case carry two very drunk men out of a river over her own shoulder. 

Having been deposited on the river bank, Yuuri matched Viktor in chattering his teeth, wanting very badly to change into something dry. Except he in no way had planned for underwater fishing, and had not taken any change of clothes. Mila, seeing his discomfort, sighed heavily: 

“Just take off that wet stuff already and go warm up in the car naked. I’ll be nearby - if you need anything, please don’t call for me, I need a break from you two.” 

“What about…” Viktor squinted at Gosha - he was no longer playing, but instead was curled up on the ground around his guitar, hugging it and for some reason sleepily calling it Anya. 

Mila sighed again and, it seemed, regretted for the umpteenth time that she had taken on the role of babysitter. 

“He definitely can’t be left alone, or we risk him sleepwalking and then you’ll never stop hearing rumours of aliens landing and wandering in these woods. So I’ll stay here. Don’t worry, it’s a warm night, I won’t freeze.”

Viktor hugged her in thanks and headed towards the car, shedding clothes on the way. Yuuri continued to stubbornly shake his head: 

“That’s not right, you’re the only lady here, so…” 

“You’re so sweet,” Mila smiled, ruffled his hair and then leaned in conspiratorially: “but I don’t think it’s me that a naked Viktor will want to see in that car with him.” 

And with the words “God, you oaf, give me your Anechka” she went to take the guitar off Gosha, not even giving Yuuri a chance to respond. Although there wasn’t any need to, probably. Everyone likely expected them to be naked together at this point already - it’s hard to think otherwise when you’re the only one trying to be private, while your partner is practically hanging up posters or yelling love confessions into a microphone. Although the last had already happened several times, anyway. 

Undressed, Yuuri quickly jumped into the back of the car, and immediately found himself in a warm embrace. Viktor started to heat up the embrace further, his hands rapidly drifting from Yuuri’s back to his ass. But just as Yuuri was about to mention, embarrassed, that they’re not alone and the car windows aren’t tinted, Viktor sighed happily, pressed his face into Yuuri’s chest and stilled. 

Yuuri also stayed in place. The back seat was folded down, but there still wasn’t enough space to fully spread out. He was nonetheless surprisingly comfortable. It was so nice to lie entangled with Viktor like this, in such an unusual circumstance; it was nice to feel that they were alone together, and yet they were still with friends; it was nice to listen to something other than the lifeless quiet of a big city or the honks of passing cars - here there were cicadas, the tree branches swaying in the breeze…

He was just about to fall asleep. 

“How about now? Am I the most flexible?” Viktor muttered sleepily and shuffled off. Yuuri opened his eyes: Viktor was looking down at his face intently, seriously. His slowly drying hair, glowing silver in the gentle moonlight, was rumpled and stuck out in every direction - it was so cute that Yuuri couldn’t help the silly smile spreading on his face. 

This softer, somewhat less godlike appearance made him want to pull Viktor in and envelop him in a bone-crushing hug; he didn't particularly want to start a discussion… but Viktor expected some reply. 

“You're always my most everything,” Yuuri whispered soothingly, filling his voice with all the conviction nurtured from childhood with posters, articles and videos of Viktor Nikiforov. And then he kissed that very same Viktor Nikiforov, tasting alcohol and happiness on his lips. Wow, happiness made him drunk and sent his head dizzy faster than even Russian vodka. “Even if I search this whole river - no, even the whole world! - I'll never find someone better than you!” 

Yuuri had barely finished when Viktor jumped forward to kiss him. But instead of being quick and innocent, this kiss was full of passion - he put his whole heart and soul into it, just as he had spent doing with very word and gesture over the past year. An entire year - just for Yuuri. 

“You don't need to go,” he whispered somewhat stumblingly, pulling apart from Yuuri again. Yuuri wasn't sure that he'd even be capable of going anywhere - he doubted his legs would currently work. “I believe you.”

They both went quiet again. This time it was Yuuri that interrupted the sleepy silence: 

“We’ve taken over the only shelter - won’t the others get eaten by the mosquitoes?” he asked with some concern. His conscience ate at him, he couldn’t feel right taking advantage of such comforts while others suffered. As they say, the more the merrier, and there should be enough space for everyone… 

“Real Russians don't get bitten by mosquitoes!” Viktor asserted with unassailable confidence in his voice. “And anyway, we came here to fish - everyone was prepared for us to be camping out, as expected,” he gave a big yawn, his following breath tickling the skin on Yuuri’s chest. “It's just a shame that we didn't catch any fish - I did promise you, after all…”

Yuuri gently cupped Viktor’s cheek with his hand. Viktor looked up, surprised and enraptured, into those unusually serious eyes, warm and dark like the night around them: 

“What do I need one for - you're my golden fish!” Yuuri declared and then immediately backtracked from his words in embarrassment: “well, that is, you're not really mine, I mean I don't own you…”

A finger touched his lips, forcing him to swallow any further unnecessary justifications.

“Golden?” Judging by his tone, Viktor was clearly planning something. 

But Yuuri didn't get a chance to try and figure out exactly what that was. To be fair, he didn't make too big an effort - you never knew what to expect from Viktor. He could easily be thinking of exercising naked on top of the car, asscheeks glinting in the golden dawn light.

But everything turned out to be a lot more innocent. To start with. 

“Take my hand,” he requested, and, when Yuuri had obediently done so, continued: “There, you've now caught the golden fish! You get three wishes!” 

Yuuri was taken aback for a moment. Then he chuckled and demanded his first wish with a smile: 

“You.” 

Viktor said nothing - but suddenly he threw a leg over him and straddled Yuuri’s hips, almost smacking his head into the roof of the car. Yuuri tensed his stomach when Viktor’s cock came in contact with it, thinking that he’ll be getting his wish granted straight away - but Viktor only leaned forward to his lips, giving him a long, slow kiss. 

“First wish accepted. What will be the second?” Judging by his sly tone, he was starting to enjoy this game. 

“You again,” bravely replied Yuuri and shut his eyes in anticipation of another kiss. He wasn't wrong - first a gentle laugh burned against his lips, then Viktor connected with his own, licking with his tongue, pressing and beginning to push in…

Yuuri buried a hand in Viktor’s hair, responding eagerly, and was already feeling a pressing need for more when Viktor distanced himself. 

“So what’s your third wish, Yuuuuri,” he murmured his name so seductively, that Yuuri almost forgot what he had wanted to say - and nearly said something else, that Viktor was so expertly suggesting to him during these long minutes of teasing… 

But he didn't forget.

“I really, really want… for you to wash the dishes…” Yuuri whispered, his tone no less sultry. 

Viktor didn't get it straight away, leaning in for a kiss. Then it clicked.

“Yuuri!” he protested, and, it seemed, was about to move away in a huff.

Yuuri laughed, brightly rather than insultingly. Viktor unwittingly started smiling himself and was glad that it was dark out and his quick surrender wasn't visible - he was still trying to be upset, after all!

As always, he couldn't manage to be upset for long. 

“I'm joking, Vitya,” Yuuri said with his slight accent - but even that was plenty for Viktor to completely forgive all possible wrongdoings for the next five years. But Yuuri hadn't finished: “All I need is you, so one wish is plenty - you can keep the others for yourself.” 

Viktor could never get used to Yuuri blowing him away like this, making his heart stop beating without even trying. He himself had to spend such a long time, working tirelessly on his image and behaviour, to be able to affect other’s hearts… But he had never been able to reach this kind of sincerity, and yet it was so much more impactful. 

Or maybe, this was simply love. 

“Then, I also want you,” admitted Viktor. And immediately went to prove it: he straightened a little, as much as there was space, drew his sure hands down Yuuri’s chest, tickled over the ribs, pressed his thumbs past his hip bones - and ever so lightly brushed along Yuuri’s hardening length. As always, slowly, without rushing - teasing.

And Yuuri surrendered with the first of many moans. When he entered Viktor, a little stiffly from the uncomfortable position, he hoped that the heavy darkness of the Russian night would be no less effective than tinted windows at hiding them from prying eyes. 

***

Yuri and Otabek only returned in the morning, after Yuuri and Viktor had already left the car and redressed themselves. Notably, Yuri’s snow-white neck was very obviously sporting a large red mark.

“What’s that on you?” Yuuri asked before he could stop himself. And congratulated himself on not reaching out to touch it, as he had instinctively wanted to - judging by the expression he got in response, he definitely would have lost his hand.

“It's from… a mosquito,” Plisetsky waved him off, looked away and quickly zipped his jacket all the way up to his chin. Naturally, in his haste he managed to catch his hair in the zipper, which had… leaves stuck in it? - and swore colourfully from the bottom of his Russian soul. 

Someone quietly laughed, and Yuuri could have sworn that it was Otabek. Definitely a ninja of some sort, Altin unquestionably possessed skills of subterfuge - and right now he must be concealing his laughter: when Yuuri looked over at him, there wasn't even a hint of a smile on Otabek’s stoic face. 

Meanwhile, Yuuri felt the pang of his conscience. 

“See, I warned you - Yuri got eaten by mosquitoes because of us!” he whispered up at Viktor, annoyed at himself. 

Nikiforov suddenly sniggered, watching as Otabek picked the leaves out of Yuri’s hair. 

“Oh, that's a very particular species of mosquito,” he began explaining knowingly. “They only bite those whom they have feelings for.” 

“How so?” Yuuri queried, not understanding.

Viktor looked at him slyly in response - then abruptly pulled him in tight: 

“Like this.”

Viktor’s lips pressed in against his bare neck, Yuuri reflexively pushed his hands against Viktor’s chest and gulped down air with a shudder. Maybe even together with a nearby fly or mosquito - his breath hitched that much, when Viktor nibbled at his skin above his collarbone.

“Stop making out already - did the wilderness trigger your baser instincts or something?” Yuri interrupted them irritably and piled into the car. “Let's roll, Yakov will fuck us up as it is for disappearing for a whole day.” 

In principle, everything was pretty much gathered together, so they got everything packed up quickly. Viktor started the car and began backing up (under Yuri’s grumbling “watch the road, not your damned boyfriend - if you drive us into the river I'll drown you myself!”), when all of a sudden Yuuri asked with concern:

“Is it ok that we're coming back without any fish?” 

“Yuuri,” Viktor shook his head and raised his finger demonstratively (almost swerving because of that off the narrow road into the river and earning himself a smack to the head from Yuri). He continued once he was past the difficult stretch. “A real Russian man doesn't go fishing for the sake of the fish!” 

“Then what for?” Yuuri had always been under the impression that ‘FISHing’ implied a focus on ‘fish’. How difficult the Russian language turned out to be! 

“To relax in good company!” Mila finished Viktor’s thought for him, hugging Yuuri around his shoulders. Viktor nodded in agreement. 

“Uh-huh, whatever makes you failures feel better,” piped up Yura, but he was roundly ignored. 

And Yuuri suddenly thought: it doesn't matter that he didn't end up experiencing all the Russian traditions, nor that he didn't catch any fish - it really was most important that he had spent the time amongst good company. The Russian traditions won't go anywhere - Viktor had been doing a marvellous job of teaching him so far. 

Teaching him to live a full, happy life. 

 

 

“Hold on, where’s Gosha?..”

**Author's Note:**

> Translator’s notes 2:
> 
> Golden fish - see the classic fairytale about the golden fish which grants wishes when caught.  
> Axe Porridge is the Russian variant of [Stone Soup.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stone_Soup) I'm struggling to find a decent translation of it online and may edit in a better link later.
> 
> Where Yuri calls them all butterfingers, the literal translation for the word he used is “ass-hands”. I’m sorry I couldn’t find a cruder option for the translation :)
> 
> Georgi’s song https://www.stihi.ru/2012/10/19/1464  
> Otabek’s song: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=hu1rQAimc0s  
> Viktor’s song: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=k0Gbxa_0ygs
> 
> A lesch (лещ) is a bream. But to _give_ someone a lesch is to slap them upside the head. I think we all know Yurio isn’t handing out free fish to anyone.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://tasty-pile-of-glitter.tumblr.com/)


End file.
